


Like Cattle

by TehChou



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot, robo!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for: http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/3417.html?thread=3665497#t3665497</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Sam/Dean, Soulless Sam being all cold and business-like and manhandley and while Dean's just hanging on for the ride.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Cattle

He's got his fingers tangled up tight in his hair. The strands are silky in his grasp and he wonders at it, wonders how he never noticed before.

Sam's got him backed up against a wall, engulfing him, trapping him with his body. Dean had tried to laugh it off at first, licking his lips nervously and muttering out something smart ("What the fuck, Sasquatch, personal space, remember?"). Inwardly, his guts were twisting themselves into knots and he didn't know why except deep inside where he'd buried this shit years ago.

Apparently Sam hadn't buried his so well.

"I'm going to strip you, Dean." Sam's voice is flat, calm and it sends goosebumps shuddering up his arms, the fine hair standing on end. Dean swallows and shifts uncomfortably in the circle of his arms.

"Do I get a say in this?" He asks, but even he knows the question is rhetorical at best. Sam just gives him a toothy, empty grin and slides a hand under his shirt, fingers tracing his ribs. Dean's breath is heavy and the air he's breathing is warm, too warm, coming off Sam's already half-naked body in waves. There's a fine sheen of sweat glistening in the low light of the shitty hotel room lamps, he doesn't really want to think about the wall he's being ground up against. Sam's hand is sliding lower, and he gives his semi-hard cock a hard squeeze before undoing the buckle of his pants.

He's mouthing kisses along his jaw, now, Dean's tilted up at an almost uncomfortable angle. He reaches his ear and licks and Dean shudders with it, hand tightening in Sam's hair, almost compulsively grinding himself upwards at it.

Sam snarls and shoves him back down, crushing all the breath out of his lungs. Dean swears something unintelligible and Sam shoving his own pants down, quick and sudden. Dean snaps his head back against the wall, rolling on his shoulders. He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see because maybe if he can't see, it won't be real. This won't be real, this thing he hadn't asked for, had never wanted to want.

Sam mouths his throat.

His hands are at his hips now, mouth moving enthusiastically at his neck, and he's sliding Dean's pants down, now hooking his fingers into his boxers and getting rid of them as well. Dean groans, hips stuttering in the cool air, the feel of fabric sliding over his oversensitive skin dislodging the sound from his throat. Sam licks at his Adam's Apple, humming a noise against it.

He steps back a moment later and Dean knows his own pupils are blown wide, knows he's flushed and panting, but Sam looks barely fazed, the bastard, just a bit of pink at his cheeks and a little heavy breathing betraying him. He's frowning down at Dean like he's been presented with a particularly difficult puzzle.

"Lube, you idiot," Dean snarls, breathlessly, twisting impatiently. Sam blinks and palms his jacket, groping at the pockets and eventually coming up with a tube of the stuff.

Dean laughs, helplessly, wondering when his baby brother, tight ass baby brother (and isn't that appropriate, he thinks, a little hysterically) started carry that shit around.

He snaps off the cap and Dean groans when he shoves one slicked up finger into him, and then another. His hands are fucking huge and Dean's gasping in time with the rhythm Sam's fingers are making in him. His hands slap tight against the wall, hips angled ridiculously, but Sam has a hand under his ass, lifting it off the wall, making the angle easier. His shoulder's against Dean chest, now, sharp bone sticking into him hard enough to bruise. He groans, low in his throat, breathing in the scent of strawberry shampoo (old habits die hard, it seems, even after Hell).

It seems both two fast and too long of a time later when Sam pulls his fingers out, straightening, grasping his waist again and lifting his legs bodily up into the air. Dean chokes on a yelp as he's contorted uncomfortably and his arms rise up compulsively to grasp at his back.

"Shit, shit Sam, what the fuck are you doing, put me down!"

But Sam's too eager, too ready. He's hard and aching and though Dean can't see it, he can feel it, wet and prodding at his entrance.

"Jesus," he wheezes out. "Haven't you ever heard of a fucking bed," But Sam isn't listening, hadn't been in the first place, no he's sliding himself in, up and in and Dean can't help it, he angles himself and then Sam's in, he's all the way in.

Dean shakes with the force and strain of it, back shoved harder and harder into the wall with each thrust of Sam's hips. He's crying out, now, he knows, babbling something meaningless and incoherent. Sam's just looking down at his body, admiring the folds of his skin where he's contorted, the jumping flex of muscle on the usually flat planes of stomach. It's intense and intimate and it goes on like that for what seems like hours, until the rhythm of his hips are stuttering, until Sam suddenly speeds up, until he leans in and his skin is brushing against Dean's cock, sweet friction he'd been begging for.

Sam stills inside him, not breathing for a long minute and Dean follows him over, clutching him hard enough to break skin, ripping out half moons of flesh.

Sam pulls out with a wet pop, making Dean wince, and sets him almost gently back onto the ground. They stand like that for a long moment. Dean's legs are shaking, though he'll never admit to it and he kinda needs the contact to remain standing, so much so that when Sam pulls away he slides down the wall, hand on his stomach, dragging through the mess he's left there.

Sam pulls out his lap top, sits down, still naked as the day he was born and begins to type furiously. Dean let's his head thunk back against the wall and stares at nothing for a long time.


End file.
